Page 24 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“I don’t like you.” There. I said it. But it’s a huge fat lie and I’m afraid he can see right through it.
“Yes, you do, Getty. You don’t drink beer on the beach with someone you don’t like.”
I glare at him, hating his reasoning. “Well, I don’t like beer either, so . . .”
“You lost me. You don’t like beer; therefore you don’t like me?” The amusement in his voice for calling my rationality on the carpet makes me frustrated. Irritable. Bitter.
“Why would you tell Darcy that I agreed to—”
“Excuse me?” The voice to his left catches me off guard and prevents the verbal barb of rebuke from firing off my tongue. “Are you Zander Donavan? You are, aren’t you?” The questions are followed by a nervous chuckle and a flush of cheeks and both have definitely caught my attention.
The orders waiting to be filled are forgotten as this gentleman piques my curiosity. Who the hell is Zander Donavan?
Zander’s eyes stay locked on mine momentarily; a flicker of irritation at being interrupted fleets through them, telling me this conversation is far from over, before he turns toward the middle-aged man beside him.
The smile that was an arrogant taunt to me slowly transforms into a self-assured one, slow and steady, as he nods his head and reaches his hand out to the man. “Yes, I am,” he says quietly. “Nice to meet you. And you are?”
“Oh man, this is so cool,” the guy says, eyes wide and movements jerky as he shifts his stance and sticks his hand out. “Glen. Glen’s my name.”
“Nice to meet you, Glen,” Zander says with a nod, eyes remaining on the man and smile still on his face, but there is a different feel here. Almost like he has a front up, on display, and I can’t take my eyes off him or stop trying to figure out what I’m in the dark on.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I told my wife it was you, and she bet me I wouldn’t come over here and find out. . . . Man, this is so exciting!” He rubs his hands together. When I look back to Zander, I can tell he’s completely comfortable with strangers approaching him.
“Getty.” Liam’s deep baritone calls through the loud chaos of the bar and as much as I don’t want to care about this mystery man who has waltzed into my life and seems to be here to stay for a while, I do want to know.
Struggling between curiosity and duty, I take a fortifying breath and nod my head to my boss, let him know I’m on the orders stacking up. Reluctantly I step away from my position that was perfect for eavesdropping, but not before I hear Glen say, “I’m sorry about losing your ride.”
Those words repeat in my head during the rest of my shift. The bar only gets busier, so any spare moment I have is spent stretching my back or running to the bathroom, although I’d like to be asking Zander for an explanation.
I watch him, though. Sitting on the other side of the bar, surrounded by fellow patrons and to my dismay a few females. And it’s not like it’s because I care or anything, because I don’t. Definitely not. It’s just because I want answers I can’t get while he’s busy flirting aimlessly with women he’ll probably never even see again.
His laugh floats across the bar and it’s like the breeze fanning the fire of my irritation with him. I have no right to be annoyed except for what he told Darcy, and yet with each passing minute he’s over there laughing and having fun, it increases.
I finish the next set of orders, realize that the end of that hour Liam mentioned to me is coming up. My eyes flicker back to Zander. To his dark hair curling up at the neck of his shirt and to how his fingers trail up and down the lines of condensation on his glass. Or that easygoing smile that says he doesn’t have a care in the world although obviously he does or he wouldn’t be here running from turbulent storms and white squalls.
“Why don’t you pull yourself a pint and get off your feet for a bit? Sit with the locals and watch the last few innings.”
I look over to Liam, who’s wiping his hands on a rag with that look in his eye that says there is no arguing with him. “Tell me something. You ever heard of the name Zander Donavan before?”
He gives me a slow and steady nod as his eyes narrow in thought. “A race car driver. Indy, I think. Pretty damn good from what I recall. Popular too. I seem to remember overhearing something on SportsCenter,” he says, motioning to the televisions that blanket the bar, “that he left midseason with some controversy—”
“Liam!” His name is shouted from the other end of the counter and he holds up a finger to tell one of the regulars it will be just a minute.
“Is that . . . ?” Liam says, all of a sudden the dots connecting for him as he looks across the bar to where Zander is seated. He stares, lips parted, as recognition makes it hard for him to find the words to speak. “Holy shit, it is him. Well, what do you know? In my bar of all places too.”
“Lucky us,” I mutter under my breath with a hint of sarcasm that apparently only I can hear, because by the look on Liam’s face he is more than thrilled to have Zander here.
Great. Now the man is invading this space of mine too.
“That definitely can’t be bad for business. Him coming in here when you’re on shift.”
“What?” How is he even aware we know each other?
“Small-town life,” he answers for me. “Everyone knows the two of you are living together up in the place on Canary. I knew he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him. Just figured he looked like someone I knew.” He shakes his head and looks over to where Zander is speaking to four guys who have stopped at his table to talk. I thought they were just patrons being friendly, but now the constant revolving door at his table makes so much more sense; they are fans who recognize Zander.
Beside me, Liam clucks his tongue and draws my attention back to him. The concentration on his face tells me he’s trying to figure a way to market Zander’s presence, and I hate the idea instantly. There’s no need for him to be more in my space than he already is. “Lucky for me you’re the one working here, since he seems only to have eyes for you. Hot damn!”
I roll my eyes, the rebuff on my tongue when his words really hit my ears. Only has eyes for me? Is he joking? When I glance over to my boss, he’s dead serious. And now I’m the one having trouble forming words.
